The Nationalist (6 page)

11

Norrie Smith received his summons to St Andrews House at eleven o’clock on the night of the blast. That creepy bastard, Craig McAlmont – the spin doctor, had phoned to say he was needed at 9:30am for ‘operational reasons.’ Norrie explained that he didn’t have time; that the investigation was at too critical a point to leave without a leader for half a day. He had been told not to worry, and that his presence was ‘required.’

Norrie lived alone in a large flat in Pollokshields. His wife had died, his son had moved out. Tonight he paced from room to room. What do they want? He knew he wasn’t exactly a favourite at the Scottish Government. The move to create a national police force had been done in the name of reducing costs, but the reality meant more pressure for those at the top of the chain to get things right first time; the role had become more political. Norrie had always been more interested in doing the job than greasing palms. He had ended up in the interim role solely because he headed up the largest police area. He knew he wasn’t being seen as a long term fixture. But still, if the investigation went well who was to say what might happen? Norrie picked up the phone to Arbogast.

“John?”

“Speaking.”

“It’s Norrie. I’ve been called to meet the First Minister tomorrow. I have a feeling it might be bad news.”

“Meaning fewer resources? I would have thought Glasgow would have been a priority right now?”

“Fewer resources; yes you might be right...”

“Sir?”

“Listen John, you’ve been a good ally to me these last few years. A public face to showcase what we can do; but I think the landscape may be about to change. I think they may be about to move me aside; I think the Chief Constable appointment is imminent.”

“They’d be mad to make a change right now, in the middle of all this. Where’s the sense?”

“It would be seen as a bold decision. Under the circumstances I think the Irish chap will be a shoe-in for this.”

“Graeme Donald?”

“He’s got experience.”

“I—”

“—I know, John, but don’t do anything daft. I understand your other half may have some knowledge of this.”

Arbogast stayed silent. He wasn’t sure who knew Rose had gone to Belfast, let alone having met with Donald. “You don’t need to say anything, John, but anything you can tell me will help me prepare for tomorrow morning. Think it over. Phone me back if you can.”

The line went dead. Arbogast held the receiver of the old phone in his hand for a long while before returning it to the cradle of the Bakelite casing. The movement hit the internal bell leaving a gentle ‘ting’ to break the silence. The note hung over the flat for some time.

“Who was that?” Rose called out from the living room. She had been back for about an hour. It was the first thing she had said.

“Norrie Smith.”

“Oh. What did he want?”

“He wanted to know what Graeme Donald said to you.”

This was met with silence. He heard the leather of the sofa crackle as Rosalind stood up. He expected her to appear at the doorway but she must have stopped to think. Her hand appeared at the doorway, gripping the frame from inside before she pulled herself into full view.

“Why would Norrie know anything about that?”

The mood had changed and Arbogast knew he was being accused. A sudden sharp anger welled up in him. Here we go again. “I didn’t say anything to him.” He heard his voice was shriller than he had intended. It made him sound defensive.

“Certainly sounds like it, John.” Rose walked forward. Arbogast could see her body was rigid. She pointed at him, walking forward and jabbing at him with her index finger. “It certainly sounds like you’ve been talking to someone.” Her voice was a hiss. John tried to think.

“Why would I say anything to anyone? I don’t even know what you talked about.”

“That’s right you don’t. You never listen to me do you?”

The situation was tense. The anger and distrust between them had been growing for some time. Neither really wanted to confront the reality but right now they were faced with little choice. Between the lines the truth was starting to emerge.

“This is fucking ridiculous.” Arbogast walked away from her, heading nowhere, anywhere, away from Rose.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out.”

“Aye well, walk away. Don’t think this is over.”

Arbogast spun round. At that moment he hated her. With every sinew in his body he wanted to lash out. His knuckles were white as he fought to retain control.

Rose noticed. “Getting all riled up now are we? Look at the big man on the war path. What you going to do John? Feel like hitting me do you? Why don’t you?” Her voice was insistent. She was goading him now and he was scared.      

“Listen, Rose.”

“I’m not your Rose, John. There’s nothing left here.”

“Don’t say that.” His anger was gone. He knew he was in danger of blowing the relationship. He replaced flight with fight. “Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t know what’s happening. We can work this out.”

“You can’t work anything out John.” Rose turned her back on him and went to the kitchen. She went straight to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. John watched by the door. He knew he wouldn’t be able to speak to her now. They were both too angry, but he wanted to try.

“Listen, Rose.”

“No you listen to me. Just fuck off.”

She slammed the door on his face. His anger had returned and he knew he had to leave. Picking up his leather jacket he left the house and started to walk.

It was late; about 11 o’clock. Arbogast didn’t know where to go but he knew he wanted a drink. It was Monday night and the town was dead, many of the late night bars were closed after a busy weekend. In truth Arbogast didn’t know where to start looking. In the last couple of years he and Rose had kept their own counsel. Pubs had been replaced by nights in and dinner parties. All day sessions had given way to trips to Ikea and soft furnishings. Bachelor days had given way to being part of a couple. For a while it had worked, but something had changed. He didn’t love her anymore. Norrie Smith had been the last straw. Walking up Sauchiehall Street he saw the outline of an ominous figure standing by the door of the Brunswick Cellar. The bouncer scanned him robotically, looking for a sign of weakness which could be exploited; something to liven his night up.

Arbogast blinked first.

“You open?”

The figure eyed him and nodded down the steep stairs. Arbogast made his way down into the gloom. The basement bar was sliced up by supporting pillars and walls. The lighting was so dim you couldn’t make out the figures lurking in the background. Once his eyes adjusted to the light he scanned the room where he saw all walks of life. Young students looking for love, older men looking for company, bored bar staff, and a battered juke box. This was the Brunswick.

“Pint please.”

“What you for?”

Arbogast looked at the barman, who could have been any age. Both arms were covered in fantastic tattoos, the lobes of both ears with filled with black discs. His beard was long and groomed while his hair was styled in a 50s quiff.

“What you for? Maybe you’ve already had enough?”

“Sorry, I was just looking at your tattoos.”

The barman looked at his arms, impressed by what he had taken as a compliment, although that had not been the intention. He nodded his own self approval before returning his stare to Arbogast.

“Look, do you want a drink or not?”

Arbogast found a corner table and sat down. He checked his phone for a message from Rose, but there was no reception. Sighing he took a long gulp from his pint of IPA. His agitation was broken by a familiar sound.

“Hello stranger.”

He knew the voice but looking up he could only see the outline of a woman in dim silhouette.

“Annabelle?”

She leaned forward and kissed him on his right cheek. Lingering over the table she allowed him to see her breasts, their outline enhanced by a low cut dress.

“It’s been a long time, John.”

She still had the same scent. Issey Miyake. Without meaning to, he inhaled deeply and was overwhelmed by nostalgia.

“I—”

“—I know; can I sit down?”

“Sure, I’m just in myself.”

Annabelle had been a short lived affair around about 15 years ago, when they had both still been in their twenties. He was just starting out in the Police. She was an art student and was about five years his junior. Back then she wore only black. Before long they both knew they weren’t going to last. His lasting memory of her had been making love on a couch at the end of a long, drunken party.

“I haven’t seen you since—”

“—I can remember it well. I’m not likely to forget. That was a special night but then I didn’t see you again. Not until yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“On the TV, I saw you at George Square, it must have been terrible.”

Annabelle looked better at the age of 35 than she ever had at 20. The gothic look had given way to a beauty he hadn’t really appreciated at the time. She was wearing a tight green full length dress which left little to the imagination. She wore a gold necklace with a small crucifix. Her hair was long, dark brown, something which complemented her eyes. The slightly chubby face he remembered had been toned through exercise. The girl he remembered had gone.

“You look great Annabelle. How long’s it been?” He took another long swig on his pint, feeling nervous he wanted to drink.

“It’s been a long time, John, too long.”

“Are you just here yourself?”

“Just passing through. I was expecting to meet up with some friends but they don’t seem to have made it out.”

“I’ve had a really shitty day, Annabelle, maybe now’s not a great time to catch up.” His mind was racing. He wanted to do something to get back at Rose. He wanted to chat up Annabelle; see what happened. But he knew he should leave. If he did this, it would be the end of something. A taboo would be broken.

“I don’t think you want to go anywhere John. Not without me.”

At 2:00am Annabelle turned both mortice locks until the bolts clicked into place. She stopped and stared at the door, a moment of uncertainty. She felt his presence behind her before she felt his hands slide across the fabric of her silk dress. She flinched slightly as his hands travelled slowly to caress her stomach, gasping as he inched slowly down. His breath whispered against the back of her ear.

“Now, where were we?”

12

Graeme Donald was unveiled as the new Chief Constable of Police Scotland at noon on Monday 12th November. Norrie Smith had been offered a deal, a good pension and a no comment ultimatum at nine-thirty which he had accepted.

A press conference was set up for lunchtime with a pre-briefing scheduled for eleven.

“Congratulations Graeme, you’re exactly the man we need for this role, and this is exactly the right time for you to be able to make your mark.”

“Thank you, First Minister. I’ll try not to let you down.”

“Try hard. You’ll get no second chance.”

“You know me. You know my background. I’ve been around for a long time and I know how to tackle terrorists.”

“Your experience in Ireland is why you’re sitting here now, but be in no doubt that the type of threat is about as different as it could get. You’re taking over when we have no fewer than 34 ongoing counter terrorism operations, with suspects from across the country being detained at Govan for questioning. We can hold them for a month, but if we don’t have answers by the end of that time, there will be trouble.”

“Understood, sir. Speaking frankly, though, it would appear, and I have to admit I’m only going by what I’ve seen in the press, it would appear that none of these suspects are being seen as particularly high level threats. Do you think the people we have will lead to anything?”

“I hope so. We all do. That’s why the use of the Terrorism Act was sanctioned. We are being supported by Westminster. The intelligence suggests that all the people being held have had access to terrorist related material. We have got the right people.”

“But what about this supposed terror cell – can it really be classed as a legitimate long-term threat?”

“Other than the video we have no evidence that we’re dealing with an organised group. Where our man got that grade of explosive is our primary concern. If there are more of them out there they need to be found. Measures will be taken to get the information we need.”

Graeme Donald nodded, “I have someone in mind for a DCI to lead this,”

“Whoever you need,”

“Rosalind Ying,”

“A woman? Even better; you can announce it when she accepts; presumably nothing more than a formality.” Craig McAlmont had appeared at the door, “It’s time.”

Graeme Donald’s arrival was met with a bank of flashes and clicks from the waiting press pack. The news of Norrie Smith’s departure was greeted with a storm of protest.

BBC News Channel

“We’re live at Saint Andrew’s House in Edinburgh to bring you news of the shock resignation of Norrie Smith, the man who was acting Chief Constable of Police Scotland. His replacement, Graeme Donald, has experience relevant to the Glasgow terror attack but questions remain over the real reason behind Mr Smith’s departure. Sources at Police Scotland suggest Smith was pushed, although the official line is that the stress of the last few days has been too great and that long standing health issues has forced an early appointment to the top job of Scotland’s new Chief of Police. We’ll have more information and live reaction later in the programme; back to the studio.”

Sandy Stirrit was having trouble keeping up with the pace of the investigation. Having seen the explosion firsthand he should, in theory, have been replaced by the second wave of reporters. Sandy wasn’t caving-into that though. He knew this was his big chance to move to an international role and he was not going to let go. Arbogast phoned with news that Norrie was being pushed out. He was concerned that Donald’s bullying style was out of kilter with the modern force – that he wasn’t fit to lead Police Scotland. The suggestion was enough to put doubt in Sandy’s mind. His friend’s intuition was usually pretty good and there was scepticism in the press about the new Chief’s credentials, given a number of unproven accusations which had been levelled at him during his time in Belfast – accusations of rigging evidence and witness intimidation during his earlier career, but there had never been any proof.